Piano Moon

Despite the many trepidations ahead of us, our beginnings were auspicious. We thrilled to the music of the piano moon and eased our way into cognition, convulsing with joy. All our spasms are religious in nature. Life is insoluble, but we do have means at our disposal by which to unravel the great mysteries of existence. Squeaks, hisses, the friction of moved furniture which may be sublimated into music, the tenuity of its strands maneuvered into webs of cosmic understanding. We feed the streets with bitumen, traffic lights, and parades. Call the studio. I’m ready to ride the escalator. You’ll recognize me by my clothes. I wear a monster gardenia and a beehive for a hat. Each day we test the prepositions of the English language for soundness and appetition. Up and down are no longer the polar opposites they once were. They are now in a state of exquisite convergence, recreating perceptual experiences which we chronicle in our journals. Last night I discovered a lost and disoriented dining room staff in the spectra of Aldebaran. This is an eyeball I wrapped in tinfoil. You can see lines of a pain rising there, at the center, where the world has become a sphere clutching gems of water. The fingerboard gives us potatoes. It does this by making sounds exempt from dry-cleaning. I write by swimming through a language, ablaze with philodendrons. I cut some ocher out for a cat I found in clay. I’d hoped that spreading myself out like this might lead to a glimpse of truth, or O’ahu. When a few of our more industrious members began scheming for ways to produce commercial wealth, we worried that this was a sure sign of disease, possibly fatal, and an antipyretic to the fevers of poetry. The diagnosis was pinned to a dream. Imaging and laboratory tests confirmed our suspicions. We trembled under the weight of is implications. The disease was plunged in a barrel of wasp piss, and the symptoms flew out like collateral. It became obvious that life was not only polysemous in nature, but that the vocal cords, which are attached to the cartilages, are to the human speech organs what the two vibrating reeds are to an oboe or the strings of a violin, which make it non-specific, and prone to hypnosis. I don’t know how to prove the existence of consciousness. I just throw words at it hoping something will stick. What we all hope to induce is trance. I’ve never wanted to treat sound like a magic carpet. The fugue was never about avoidance. It was always a search, a quest for an ontologically transparent activity, like a man sanding a block of wood.